


12 Days of Ficmas 2016: Home for the Holidays

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Danger Night, Divorced Lestrade, M/M, Melancholy, Needy Sherlock, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Romantic Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, hair play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 20:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13175019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Greg is adrift on his first post-divorce Christmas; luckily, Sherlock has a set of lockpicks.





	12 Days of Ficmas 2016: Home for the Holidays

Greg was aimless, puttering around his bachelor flat after returning his kids to their mum’s in time for tea. She’d invited him in but he couldn’t bear it: walking in the front door of a house where for seventeen years he’d left his shoes by the back door. He wished her happy Christmas and turned his back before she could shut him out.

He was glad, in the end, that he’d done the tree. He poured himself a double shot of whisky and sat in his armchair, looked at it a bit, pretty but everything on it fresh from packages, free of history or his children’s primary school scrawl. It had been a good day with them; he wouldn’t get melancholy. He’d have his drink and make an early night; it was back in the office next morning. Someone would bring leftover sweets or mince pies and he’d have it with his second coffee, then go outside to smoke his fourth cigarette.

The lock turning—he’d have thought a key in the lock, but once he saw the familiar, sturdy outline of him in his dark coat, he knew it was not a key at all—and here he came, perfect timing, to save Greg from himself. There wasn’t room to brood when The World’s Only needed looking after, which was the only reason he ever showed up unannounced.

“Happy Christmas,” Greg said, as Sherlock let the coat slip off his shoulders and draped it over the back of the sofa.

The squint, the wrinkled bridge of his nose. “Is it?”

“You know it is.”

A shrug:  _you got me_. “Yeah, I know it is.”

“What’s your story, then?” Greg had a ridiculous urge to pat his lap, invite him to drape and curl and smother.

Another shrug, and he picked up a framed photo he’d seen a dozen times, set it down again. “Didn’t want you to be alone.”

“On Christmas.”

“Right.”

“And?” Greg knew him, every inch, every hair on his head. He was desperately, vividly aware, suddenly, of his own heart inside his chest.

“Didn’t want to be alone.”

“C’mere, then.” And he did pat his lap, and got a smirk in return, but in the end he came near, and knelt by Greg’s feet, and his hands slid up the outsides of Greg’s thighs, then up his sides. Nuzzling in, head on Greg’s lap, and Greg caught a curl of his hair and wound it around his finger. “You’re all right?” Greg’s voice was low and soft, and they both knew what was really being asked.

He nodded, slow and lazy, and Greg went on picking through his hair, sipping the whisky now and then, until he’d finished it.

“Bed?” he asked, not one to take him for granted, aching to burrow deep beneath the duvet beside him, spend as long as they could both hold out reminding him he was not alone. Another nod, and he rolled his head, mouth and breath and a moaning hum—Greg’s desire affirmed and answered.

They rose and trailed each other down the little hall to the bedroom at once cluttered and empty, the never-made bed, kissed and unbuttoned and quickly warmed the too-cold sheets. He must know, surely he knew, the genius who could tell you every secret you held with just a quick, sharp glance. But just in case he’d missed it:

“I’m glad to have you home.”


End file.
